All about Flinx

Sweet as sin

She had always hated roses.

Flowers in general bothered her to no end. She saw no logical reason in collecting the thorny and irritating plants and showcasing them around homes and office desks. They required daily care, a certain amount of water droplets, and some sort of strange, special plant food, only for them to inevitably shrivel up and die weeks after purchasing them, at best. She understood the appeal of them, of course; flowers were awfully pretty and artistic; but she still didn't believe that they were worth all of the hassle that went into taking care of them. Still, even knowing that and voicing the opinion to those she held close enough to rant to, she always seemed to receive a brand new, long-stemmed rose once a week from her not-so-secret-admirer, the infamous Wally West - also known as Kid Flash, for his inhuman speed.

Her eyes, weary and so pink, trailed along the yellow sunflowers that she passed. Each sunflower lined the grass of the familiar forest area, standing tall and proud and soulless, and she wished to crush each and every one of them with the sole of her shoe - because if she saw one more God-damned flower she'd be left running up the walls - but she restrained herself, because that would take far too long, and she didn't have all night to run around and destroy something that may have been perceived as art. Instead, she carried on walking, taking steady steps over the tall blades of grass, until she reached a large maple tree that stood in the outskirts of the forest. She took shelter underneath the thickening tree, continued to wait, and the rosewood coloured leaves protected her from the small spits of rain that she was sure she had felt blemish her skin on her way there.

If she had worn a watch, she would have been tapping on it by now, but no, she didn't like watches; almost as much as she disliked flowers. She had no idea of just how long she had been waiting among the grass and trees for him to arrive. However, she did know that he would staring at a hex in the face if he made her wait a minute longer. She waited for no one, and he understood that, so she had no clue what he was playing at.

(she was starting to wonder if he was going to show up at all)

(damned insecurities flooding through her bloodstream like a poison)

She tore herself from the maple tree that smelled like grime and mud and sap and all things rotten, and she returned to stalking against the darkness that skirted around her, pacing and traversing atop dirty leaves and branches until she was certain that she had treaded on every square inch of the forest - her forest - hers and his - and she wished that she was aware of what time it was, or that she had bothered to take her mobile phone with her so that she could call him and yell all of the obscenities that were burning on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to spew from her tinted lips.

It wasn't until the moment in which she was preparing to vanish from the forest that she heard the faint sounds of his footsteps, felt his presence like a sinful shadow casting behind her anatomy, and she found her lips twitching into something of a smile - not a good little smile, like a child come Christmas morning, more triumphant, ironic - because she would be the one to make him wait next time - and there would be a next time, because he was here and he hadn't changed his mind like she had been beginning to believe more and more every minute that she had loitered.

Spinning herself around to face him, she felt the grass scuffing beneath her shoes, and then she was looking directly at him. She took him all in, breathed in his eyes that were so devastatingly blue and conspicuous in the moonlight, the natural curve of his utterly celestial lips, the way that he moved under his clothes - his outfit made from such a rich latex of yellow and red and embarrassment and goodness - and she could see with perfect clarity the apology that harboured in his timid smile. He must have been saving someone, she surmised, someone who could not save themselves (someone who needed him more than she did). Her eyes downcast lower, trailed down to his palm that was hanging by his side, and of course, he held a rose in said hand - a rose that was everything that Jinx was not; fragile, graceful, brittle; only the thorns could ever represent her - and she wasn't certain of whether she should accept it like she did all the others (she had long lost count of how many it had been.) Perhaps, she mused, if she simply hexed this one, he would stop gifting her more. But then she thought not. She had hexed the first one, she recalled distinctly, and yet more had followed.